Chapter Four: Cracks in the Porcelain

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the Thorn Estate like golden ink. Jasmine stirred beneath the silk sheets, her dreams still tangled with fragments of the night before—Lucien's voice, his eyes, the pain he didn't speak but somehow screamed.

She sat up, the oversized bed swallowing her silhouette. Her fingers grazed the place on her neck where his breath had been warm. He hadn't kissed her. But he could have. Should have. And that, somehow, made it worse.

A knock came at the door.

"Mrs. Thorn?" a maid's soft voice. "Mr. Thorn has requested your presence in the east garden for breakfast."

Jasmine blinked. "He's awake?"

"Yes, ma'am. He's already waiting."

Lucien Thorn. Waiting? For her?

Jasmine slipped into a pale lavender dress—simple, elegant, chosen last night by the in-house stylist Lucien insisted she use. Her hair curled softly at her shoulders. She refused to wear the diamond necklace he'd gifted her earlier in the week. Not yet.

The garden was a dream of white roses and sculpted fountains, trimmed hedges, and marble statues too flawless to feel real. In the middle sat Lucien, reading something on a tablet, coffee untouched at his side.

He didn't look up as she approached. "You're late."

Jasmine took her seat. "You're surprisingly polite for a man who practically ran from me last night."

He closed the tablet and met her gaze. "You're unusually curious for someone who signed a no-intrusion contract."

"I signed a marriage license too," she replied, buttering a croissant. "Didn't stop you from rewriting the rules."

Lucien didn't smile. But he didn't look away either.

They ate in silence for several moments. The birds chirped. The fountain trickled. Jasmine sipped her coffee, aware of how unreal it all still felt—how she, a freelance artist, had landed herself in a mansion beside a man whose heart was a fortress.

"Pack a bag," Lucien said suddenly.

She blinked. "For what?"

"We're leaving the city."

"Where?"

"Thornridge. My family's estate upstate. There's a charity gala tomorrow night, and our presence is expected."

"Our?"

"We're married, remember?"

"Right," she said, dryly. "The fairytale continues."

Lucien stood. "You have three hours."

---

Thornridge was less of an estate and more of a castle. Ancient stone walls, tall arched windows, ivy-covered pillars that kissed the sky. Jasmine stared out the car window as they approached, her breath catching. It looked like something out of a Gothic romance novel.

Lucien didn't speak much during the drive. He fielded work calls, typed rapidly on his laptop, and answered only with monosyllables when she tried to make conversation.

By the time they arrived, the sun was already dipping below the horizon, casting shadows across the sprawling grounds.

A butler opened the front doors. "Welcome home, Mr. Thorn. Madam Thorn."

Lucien's jaw tightened at the words.

Jasmine noticed. "You hate it here."

"It's not hate," he said, stepping inside. "It's history."

The foyer smelled of lemon polish and age. Portraits lined the walls—men and women in expensive clothes, all bearing the sharp Thorn features: strong jaws, cold eyes, stiff postures.

Lucien stopped in front of one.

Jasmine followed his gaze. "Your mother?"

He nodded once. The woman in the portrait was beautiful. Regal. And utterly unyielding.

"She hated weakness," Lucien murmured. "And anything that disrupted her idea of perfection."

"Sounds familiar," Jasmine whispered.

He glanced at her. "I'm not my mother."

"No," she said quietly. "You're worse. Because you know how to feel—and you choose not to."

Lucien said nothing.

---

Later that night, after unpacking, Jasmine found herself wandering the halls again. Something about this house felt heavier than the mansion in the city. More haunted. As if ghosts still whispered along the walls.

She stumbled upon a locked room at the end of the west corridor. Dust coated the doorknob.

She turned to leave—but paused as she heard voices downstairs.

Curious, she followed the sound down a spiral staircase, quiet as a whisper.

Lucien stood in the drawing room. Arguing with a woman.

Tall. Blonde. Dressed in white.

Jasmine didn't recognize her—but the tension between her and Lucien was unmistakable.

"I don't care if you're married, Lucien," the woman hissed. "She means nothing to you. We both know this is just your pathetic attempt to make me jealous."

Lucien's voice was cold. Controlled. "I don't play games anymore, Elira."

Jasmine's blood ran cold. Elira. The ex.

"You said you loved me," Elira snapped. "You begged me to stay—"

"And you left," Lucien interrupted sharply. "You made your choice. Now live with it."

Elira's eyes flashed. "So you parade around with some starving artist to convince me you've moved on?"

Jasmine stepped forward.

"Actually," she said calmly, "I'm more than a starving artist. And if Lucien married me just to spite you, he's doing a damn good job."

Elira's head snapped toward her. "You must be Jasmine."

"I must be."

Lucien looked between them—his expression unreadable.

Elira scoffed. "This is sad, even for you, Lucien."

And with that, she turned and stormed out, heels echoing down the hallway like gunshots.

Jasmine turned to Lucien. "She's still in love with you."

"She's still in love with the idea of owning me."

"And you?" she asked. "Are you still in love with her?"

Lucien stared at her for a long, long time.

Then he whispered, "No."

And left Jasmine standing there, wondering why the answer didn't make her feel any better.